


Goddamn

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Cop AU, M/M, honestly i don't know why, i have been working on this for 84 years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: The first time Bucky Barnes lays eyes on Steve Rogers and it counts, he’s got blood all over his face and a black eye, and he’s grinning savagely even as Bucky tightens a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.
Or, Sergeant Barnes keeps encountering a really annoying criminal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's a holiday miracle! i have been working on this for like 6 months. grad school is a Fun Time.
> 
> anyway, [me](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) and [my beta](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com/).

The first time Bucky Barnes lays eyes on Steve Rogers, he’s face-down on the schoolyard. His knuckles are bleeding and he’s out of breath and yet pushing himself to his feet, squaring his tiny shoulders and raising his fists once more while Bucky’s little sister darts away.

Bucky actually feels a little indignant about it; Becca’s his to protect, not this scrawny bit of bully-bait’s. But there’s a little voice in his head reminding him that he _didn’t_ come to save her. The bully-bait did.

So he stands beside Steve Rogers and puts his fists up, too. After a moment the bullies decide their time is more valuable finding someone else smaller than them to injure, rather than participating in an actual fair fight, and they dissipate.

Bucky doesn’t speak to Steve. Steve doesn’t speak to Bucky.

They go their separate ways.

-

The first time Bucky Barnes lays eyes on Steve Rogers and it counts, he’s got blood all over his face and a black eye, and he’s grinning savagely even as Bucky tightens a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

“Steve goddamn Rogers,” Bucky mutters as he pushes him into the back of his cop car.

“My middle name’s Grant, actually,” Steve says before Bucky closes the door on him. Bucky rolls his eyes and turns to his partner, who’s leaning against the sedan, radioing for an ambulance.

“You know him?” Natasha asks. Her boot is still pressed to the neck of the guy Rogers had been beating the pulp out of—a guy, Rogers had said, who’d been taking upskirt photos of women in the bar across the alley.

Bucky leans against the car too, checking to make sure the windows are rolled up before he answers. “We went to the same high school,” he explains. “He’s always had a thing about standing up to bad guys, or whatever.”

“I like him already.” Natasha glares down at the guy on the ground, beginning to wriggle, and after a moment he goes still again. “That’s right, asshole. An ambulance is on its way to patch up your sorry ass, then it’s the clink. I just wish I’d been here to help our friend in the car out. As if he needed it.”

Cocking his head, Bucky considers that. Last he’d seen Rogers, at their high school graduation, he’d been tiny, a scrap of tough beef jerky topped with stupidly blue eyes and the foulest mouth in the school. “He used to need it,” he says.

Natasha looks over at him. “What?”

“He used to need help,” Bucky repeats.

She isn’t even subtle about looking in at Rogers, who turns and looks right back. “You mean he didn’t always look like every fantasy I’ve ever had, all rolled into one?” she asks, and gives Rogers a little wave. He winks back at her. “Seriously, have you seen how wide his shoulders are?”

Bucky had, actually. He’d noticed it all while trying to haul Rogers back. He must weigh at least two hundred pounds now, all muscle, and he’s taller than Bucky by at least an inch—which says something, because Bucky is the tallest in his family. “Yes,” he says, because if he says all these words to Natasha, she might hold onto them for later use, and this isn’t even the limit of everything he’s thinking. “I don’t think he’d hit puberty by the time we graduated high school.”

Shrugging, Natasha lets up on the man’s neck as the ambulance pulls into the alley. “Y’know what they say,” she says, hauling their criminal up by the collar of his shirt, “slow and steady wins the race.”

-

“Are you going to charge me?”

Bucky stops in front of the holding cell they’d put Steve Rogers in. He’s reclined on the metal bench, one hand behind his head, looking as casual as if he’s waiting for a bus. It’s been a couple of hours since they’d locked him in there; they’ve only just finished debriefing Captain Fury, and that had only been after he and Natasha had accompanied the creep first to the hospital and then to his own holding cell, and processed him. In that time, Rogers has washed the blood away.

He still looks like shit.

“Vigilante justice is not condoned by the NYPD,” Bucky says. Personally, he agrees with Rogers, might even have done the same thing in that situation, but he’s not being his personal self right now.

Rogers shoots off the bench, crosses the room in two long strides and glares at Bucky through the bars. “He deserved it, Barnes,” he snaps. “That perv deserved all I gave him and more, and you know it.”

“The NYPD’s official stance holds that private citizens should not take punishment into their own hands,” Bucky says. He looks Rogers right in the eye as he says it, hoping that he’s reading what Bucky’s putting out. Rogers’ jaw ticks, but he doesn’t speak again. “The man you attacked has elected not to press charges. You’re free to go.”

Rogers’ posture relaxes as Bucky unlocks the cell door. His expression goes from defensive to satisfied, as it had been while they’d watched the creep being examined by the EMTs. As Bucky walks him to the intake desk to get his personal effects, Rogers turns to him. “He’s getting charged, though, right? My friend Peggy—she’ll press charges if no one else will.”

“One of the other women is pressing charges,” Bucky says. “Two to seven years, if justice is served. And he’ll be registered on the sex offender list.”

A grim smirk appears on Rogers’ mouth. “And his injuries?” he asks, putting his watch back on and reaching for his shoes.

“Superficial.” _Wish they weren’t_ , Bucky thinks about adding, but he’s still at work. “He’ll be good as new in a couple of weeks.”

“Shame.” Straightening up, Rogers sticks his wallet into his pocket and picks up his cell phone. “Least I could’ve done is broken his jaw.”

Bucky allows a small smile to make its way onto his face, just for a second. Seeing it, Rogers grins. Shit, his eyes are so blue. “You need help getting home?”

“What, you offering?” Rogers asks, and his voice takes on a drawling purr that really shouldn’t be hot, but is. “You gonna give me a ride, walk me to my door? You been real charming so far—maybe I’ll let you give me a kiss, if my daddy don’t turn on the sprinklers.”

Something about the way that Rogers tips his head flirtatiously makes Bucky come to his senses. Or maybe it’s that he can now see Natasha over Rogers’ shoulder, eyebrows raised at them. “Uh,” Bucky manages. “I’ve still got a few hours on my shift. Which is—I mean, I wouldn’t be able to, y’know, um…” Rogers is laughing at him. Bucky clears his throat and scrapes together his dignity. “I just meant, if you need to call someone, I can get you a phone.”

Still smiling at him, Rogers waves his cell phone around. “I got one already. But thanks for the offer.”

“Standard procedure,” Bucky replies, because that’s what will make this better, won’t it, putting some space between himself and Rogers?

It doesn’t work. Rogers seems endlessly amused by Bucky’s fumbling; he glances up at him through his eyelashes while his thumbs tap away at his phone, probably texting someone. “Of course,” he says, voice low, “you’d do the same for anyone.”

“Right.”

Rogers twists his arm to look at his watch, then goes back to texting. “Yeah. Don’t worry about me. We’re close to the F train here, right? I’ll just jump on that, meet up with my friends for another drink or two before I call it a night.”

“No more fights,” Bucky calls after him as he makes his way toward the exit.

Rogers turns and smiles at him, waves, and leaves.

-

“Jesus Christ, are you serious?” Natasha asks, her eyes pointed off over Bucky’s shoulder. He turns to look; the bar they’re in is packed with late-night partiers, so he expects it will take some time to figure out what she’s talking about, but it only takes him a second or two.

Three hours after Bucky’d let him out of jail, Steve Rogers is still partying; a big dark bruise in a half-moon over one eye but looking otherwise like he’s forgotten all about his sojourn at the 61st precinct.

Bucky shuffles around the booth so he’s sitting next to Natasha and watches as Rogers signals for another round with one hand and spins a pretty blonde woman with the other. He’s half-sitting, perched on the edge of a barstool, and the woman stands next to him, bouncing along to the beat of the music.

“I’m impressed,” Nat says, taking a sip of her beer. Her thumb leaves a smudge of sauce from the chicken wings they’re eating on her glass. “I’d probably head home after getting arrested.”

Bucky shrugs. “I think I’d want to get a little more drunk.”

“Oh, I’d get drunk. But I’d do it in private.” They watch in silence as Rogers wiggles his shoulders—his wide, wide shoulders—for his friend’s benefit. Finally, Natasha reaches for another wing. “So you two are gonna screw, right?”

If Bucky gets his way… “Well. Yes,” he says. “I hope.”

“Tonight?”

Rogers tips his head toward the woman, leaning in as she says something to him. Her arm is tight around his neck. “Would you sleep with your arresting officer immediately after your release?”

Feeling her eyes on him, Bucky turns to look at Natasha. “Depends how hot they were,” she says. “If someone who looked like you arrested me? Yeah, probably.”

“I’m flattered.” Bucky sinks a little lower in his seat and takes a drink of his beer. “He seems kind of busy, doesn’t he? With that woman there.”

Natasha hums noncommittally and gnaws at her chicken bone. “Doesn’t look like that to me,” she says, but whatever she’s reading in their body language, Bucky can’t see it.

Rogers and the woman, dressed all in white, look pretty cozy to him. They’re still muttering into one another’s ears, still sort of half-dancing, Rogers’ hand steady at the base of her spine, her arm a loose collar on his neck.

But then—and it’s totally surreal, because Bucky’s been on a couple of stakeouts and he’s never had this happen to him—Rogers makes him. And it’s not just that Rogers happens to look around the room and see him, no; he must know Bucky’s there, because he looks straight from the woman’s face into Bucky’s eyes.

And then? And then Steve Rogers—Steve goddamn Grant Rogers—smirks at him.

“So this is awkward,” Natasha says, immediately, and when Bucky turns to glare at her she’s smirking too. “You want me to leave you alone with him?”

“ _No_.”

Laughing, she picks up her beer and pokes at him until he gets out of the booth so she can stand. “Too bad. Looks like me and Rogers are trading places.” She pats him on the chest and sashays away, nodding cheerfully at Rogers as she passes him.

Bucky slumps back into the booth and tears open a wet wipe, because fuck if he’s going to get caught covered in buffalo sauce by someone whose pants parts he wants to see. Rogers slides in across from him, setting down his dark whisky-looking drink on the table and looking him over.

For several long seconds, Bucky watches Rogers watch him; then, abruptly, his mouth decides he has to say something: “You look like you got in a fight.”

Rogers snorts. “You should see the other guy,” he replies. “They arrested me for what I did to him. Would you believe I was behind bars earlier tonight?”

The squirmy nervous thing in Bucky’s stomach goes to goo; he laughs and holds up his beer for Rogers to toast against. “Fuck, Rogers. Next time, would you at least _try_ to not get caught?”

“If I hadn’t gotten caught, that guy never would have gotten arrested,” Rogers points out. “My criminal record can suffer for a few more shitlumps leaving my friends alone.” Bucky tips his head agreeably; but Rogers looks suddenly anxious. “You really think vigilante justice is bad?”

Bucky swallows. “I think that it’s a slippery slope,” he admits. Rogers spins his glass on the table, looking down into the liquor. “Look. You did a good thing. It’s just—where does the line get drawn? So you beat up a creep. Great. What’s to stop a creep from beating up someone trying to stand up to him?”

He knows what Rogers is going to say before he says it, looking directly into Bucky’s eyes as he does: “Me.”

“Until the day you’re actually charged.” Suddenly Bucky’s exhausted by all this, by Rogers, always too righteous for his own good. He finishes his beer and digs in his wallet for some cash, which he pins under his pint glass. “Have a good night, Rogers. Try and keep out of trouble.”

Across the bar, Natasha reaches out and puts a hand on Rogers’ friend’s waist. Instead of interrupting, Bucky sends her a text on his way out the door.

-

Two weeks later, Bucky’s hunched over his desk and Form 8-434134-573A when he feels Natasha’s pen tapping out their _pay attention_ code on the wood. It’s only half-pretending when he sits up and rolls his shoulders back.

Shuffling across the bullpen toward holding is a line of three men: a black guy with a goatee, Rogers, and someone who looks pretty suspiciously like Tony Stark. Just as Bucky’s thinking of turning to Natasha to ask what the fuck is going on, Rogers looks around and catches sight of him. He grins and waves, both hands moving with it because of the handcuffs on his wrists.

Bucky decidedly does not wave back. Instead he gives Rogers a _what the fuck_ face and watches until he and his partners in crime disappear behind the door to holding. Then he turns to Natasha. “Okay, what the fuck,” he says.

“Agreed.” She props her chin in her hand, shoving her own paperwork aside. “Doesn’t look like he got in a fight this time, does it?”

“If he did, he really came out on top.” When Natasha gives him a big, predatory grin, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Get your mind out of the gutter. I just meant he really doesn’t _look_ like he’s been in a fight.”

She shrugs unapologetically. “I’m just saying that makes him exactly your type.” Leaning back in her seat, she picks up her pen again and taps at the edge of her desk. “You’re right, though. So if not a brawl, then what? And, by the way—was that Tony Stark?”

“Looked like it to me.” Yawning, Bucky rolls his neck and inspects his paperwork. “Shit, I’m going to have to talk to him, aren’t I?”

“If you still want to bang him, yeah,” Nat says. She points with her pen at Form 8-434134-573A on his desk. “Finish that form up first, though. You don’t want to seem desperate, y’know?”

-

Bucky manages to wait almost half an hour before heading into holding, though he doesn’t want to wait too long in case Tony Stark’s lawyers arrive soon.

Rogers looks up and around from where he’s lying on a bench in one of the cells, and grins when he sees Bucky. “Hey,” Rogers says, rolling directly to his feet and walking toward the bars. His friends—that is definitely Tony Stark, on closer inspection, though Bucky doesn’t know the third guy—look on with interest. “You here to spring me again?”

“No.” Not even when Rogers starts to pout. Not even when he looks as cute as that. Bucky chews on his tongue for a minute. “What was it, this time?”

Grinning real big, Rogers actually puffs up a little. “Vandalism.”

Pride will be his downfall one day, Bucky thinks. “You and _Tony goddamn Stark_ got arrested for vandalism. You—Rogers, what the hell did you do?”

“It was just a corner store up on Atlantic.” Rogers shrugs; he doesn’t look apologetic in the least. “He deserved it, anyway.”

“Rogers,” Bucky repeats, “ _what did you do_.”

Throwing up his hands, Rogers actually begins to laugh a little. The third guy, the one Bucky doesn’t recognize, gets up and comes to stand silently at Rogers’ left hand, his arms crossed over his chest. “It wasn’t a lie! I just—we just left a note, y’know, for his customers, telling them what kind of person he is.” Bucky waits, standing at parade rest, dread curling in his gut. This is going nowhere good, he can feel it. Finally Rogers’ laughter begins to die out, the mirth on his face replaced by earnestness. “He’s a skinhead.”

Bucky keeps chewing on his tongue because he has no idea what to say. Tony Stark gets to his feet to stand beside his friends. “I developed a spray paint that they won’t be able to get off. They’ll have to replace the windows,” Stark crows; he goes serious after a moment. “I don’t hold with neo-Nazis.”

Fuck. Fucking…fuck. “The NYPD does not condone vigilante justice,” Bucky says. Rogers’ mouth breaks back into that grin; now Bucky lets one corner of his mouth tick up, just for a second. “Private citizens should not take the law into their own hands.”

Rogers’ friends start speaking, both at the same time; after a moment, Rogers reaches out and gently smacks both of their arms with the backs of his hands. They both turn to glare at him, though he hasn’t looked away from Bucky’s face, and something in Rogers’ expression makes them go quiet. “We’ll keep that in mind,” Rogers says. “Um, is the lawyer here yet?”

“I’m not on your case,” Bucky says, shrugging. “Your arresting officer will bring them back when they arrive.” Giving Rogers and his friends one last nod, he turns to go.

“Wait.” Rogers is flat against the bars when Bucky turns back, the jut of his nose poking out where he’s pressed his face between two. “Will I see you again soon?”

No matter how much he wants to, Bucky doesn’t walk back toward him. “Depends. Are you planning on getting caught doing something illegal in the near future?”

Somehow, standing in a dingy, piss-smelling holding cell, Rogers has the balls to laugh.

-

“Petit larceny, Rogers, really?”

Rogers twists a bit, trying to look over his shoulder at Bucky while he’s being handcuffed. “The dog—my friend Clint—” he squirms, looking so earnest that Bucky considers loosening the cuffs. “Look at that dog and tell me we didn’t save him.”

His wrists are shaking under Bucky’s hand; and he’s right. The dog, some kind of retriever, looks pitiful, too skinny, his fur matted, paw up on Steve’s friend’s leg. As Bucky watches, Steve’s friend leans down, hands trapped behind his back, to kiss the dog on its head. “You should arrest that dog’s owner,” Rogers mutters.

Bucky swallows. “That doesn’t change the fact that you broke into his house to steal it,” he manages to say.

His shoulders stiffening, Rogers lets Bucky walk him to the cop car. “I know it doesn’t.”

For a few seconds, Bucky looks at Rogers’ profile, the defeated, dissatisfied downward curve of his mouth. He turns to look at Natasha, who’s waiting for Rogers’ friend to finish saying goodbye to the dog; in her face she can see the same unrest he’s feeling in the low part of his belly. Finally he lets go of Rogers’ wrists with one hand so he can press the transmit button on the radio clipped to his epaulet. “This is Barnes requesting backup,” he says, speaking into the radio, “one cruiser to Lorraine and Columbia.”

He’s so charmed by the grin Rogers gives him that he almost misses dispatch confirming his request. He pulls open the door to his and Natasha’s sedan and helps Rogers in. “This doesn’t let you off the hook,” he says, leaning down so he’s on a level with Rogers. “Just because the dog’s owner deserves to get arrested doesn’t mean you _don’t_.”

“But,” Rogers says, “if you can’t prove we did anything, and if he won’t charge us—”

“Jesus, Rogers, if you’re so worried about getting charged, why don’t you _quit getting arrested_ ,” Bucky suggests. Rogers just smiles at him as he swings the car door shut.

Yawning—it’s only an hour until the end of their shift—Bucky leans against the cruiser and watches the animal control van pull up and Steve’s friend crouch to let the dog lick at his face. “You two should definitely bang,” Rogers’ friend calls at Bucky. “You and Steve.”

Natasha, to her credit, doesn’t laugh, but Bucky can tell from the tilt of her head that she desperately wants to. “This coming from the guy who’s had a dog’s tongue in his mouth in the last five seconds,” Bucky grouses. “Finish up there, dude. We’ve still got to get you back to the station and booked.”

-

They barely manage to get the paperwork done for Rogers and his friend before their shift ends; and, because the man who’d called the cops on them isn’t talking, the two troublemakers are still in a cell when Bucky and Natasha punch out.

Because he’s a nice person, Bucky stops by holding on his way out. Rogers gets up like he expects him to unlock the door, but Bucky holds up his empty hands. “Sorry. You’re stuck for a while,” he says, and Rogers gives him a wounded look not unlike the one the dog had given when animal control had loaded it into a van. “The dog’s owner isn’t feeling too chatty right now. Unless you’re ready to post bail, you’re here for a bit longer.”

“And you?” Rogers asks, “Where are you going?”

“Home to bed.” And Bucky’s really looking forward to it.

Pouting, Rogers leans against the bars. “Without me?”

Unfortunately. Also, how does Rogers seem to know just what he’s thinking? “I don’t have the keys to let you out,” Bucky says. “So, yeah.”

Rogers sighs dramatically and steps back toward the bench, and Bucky turns to go. “Think of me,” Rogers calls after him, “while you’re comfy in bed. I’ll be here. On this bench. Cold, and alone.”

Bucky smirks, but doesn’t turn. As the door swings shut behind him he hears Steve’s friend saying, “at least you’ve still got me!”

-

It’s not even a surprise the next time Bucky and Natasha pull up to some rundown warehouse by the docks to find Rogers sitting on the curb. The building’s alarm is loud as hell when they get out of the car, but Rogers doesn’t look like he’s noticed it, sitting relaxed on the ground flipping a pencil between his fingers. He grins real big as Bucky straightens his hat, waves at him. Natasha hangs back.

As Bucky walks closer, it becomes clear why Rogers doesn’t seem bothered by the noise: he’s wearing earplugs, bright neon yellow ones. Bucky puts his hands up in a _what the fuck_ gesture, and Rogers pulls out one of the earplugs, grimaces, and replaces it. He sucks in a breath like he’s going to talk, but just as he does, a big sleek matte grey limo slides up to the curb and stops about six feet from them.

Tony Stark tumbles out, because of course he does. He makes a face and pulls out his phone, fiddling with it for a moment before the alarm abruptly goes silent. In its wake Bucky’s ears ring; Rogers pulls the earplugs out and shoves them in his pocket as he gets to his feet.

“I should’ve made you promise not to get in trouble,” Bucky mutters. “Did you two get into some bullshit lovers’ quarrel? Stark, am I wrong in assuming this is your building?” He gestures to the StarkPhone in his hand.

“Tony had some of my paints,” Rogers says. “I broke in because I wanted them back. If he’d just given me the keys like I’d suggested—”

“I was out for _dinner_ , Rogers, with Pepper. My Pepper. You could’ve waited until—”

Rogers throws up his hands, glaring at Stark. “You know, for someone as—as— _technological_ as you are, you’re the worst at answering texts. How was I supposed to know you were out with that—”

“Jesus Christ, you’re _grown men!_ ” Bucky yells as he darts between them. Stark slams into his shoulder, trying to get past him as Rogers dances just out of his reach. “Nat—would you give me a hand, please?”

By the time they manage to pull Stark and Rogers away from each other, everyone’s out of breath, a little dirty, and pretty pissed off. “Aren’t you two supposed to be friends?” Bucky asks finally, holding Stark in his best stranglehold. Natasha is sitting on Rogers’ back, his face pressed to the ground, arm twisted up under her knee.

“Would you—” Stark struggles in Bucky’s grip, ultimately getting nowhere. “Jesus, would you let me go and fucking _arrest him_ already?”

He twists in Bucky’s grasp, but Natasha’s already pulling her handcuffs out. The look she gives Bucky very clearly says, _I can’t believe this is happening_ , but neither of them speak.

Bucky doesn’t let go of Stark until Rogers is securely locked in the car. “ _Fuck_ ,” Stark grumbles as Bucky finally lets go of him, “you didn’t fuck up my hair, did you? I’m supposed to be on a date right now.” He reaches both hands up and fiddles with his hair blindly for a moment before huffing and giving up. “I’m going to be late. You guys will leave him in a cell for a few hours, right? And I can come by after and fill out your forms?”

He gets back into his limo without waiting for an answer. Turning to Natasha, Bucky rubs a hand over his face where he’d caught Stark’s shoulder. “For real,” he says, “why is he like this?”

“You’d know better than me.” Natasha shrugs. “Maybe he’s just looking for attention.”

“Yeah, but—whose?” Bucky asks, then sticks his hand out when she goes to speak again. “No—don’t say it—I don’t want you to say it.”

Nat grins at him, that sharp smile that makes him suspect she knows something that he doesn’t. Then she mimes zipping her mouth shut and gets in the car.

-

It’s not until they’re sitting on Bucky’s couch, having a beer and catching up on the latest episodes of _Top Chef_ , _MasterChef_ , and _Chopped_ that Natasha tells him. She’s been fiddling with her phone for nearly an hour, lying with her legs across Bucky’s lap, her beer bottle shoved unceremoniously into the space between two cushions so it doesn’t spill. “Clint says Stark bailed him out,” she says.

Bucky, more absorbed in _Chopped_ than he probably should be, turns to stare at her, completely lost. “Who the fuck is Clint?”

For several long seconds, they blink at one another; finally Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. “Rogers’ friend. The one with the dog,” she explains. “He says Stark went and bailed Rogers out after our shift ended.”

This explanation helps Bucky precisely zero percent. “What—how do you—” he stops, not sure what to ask first.

Natasha smirks at him for a long moment, but eventually takes pity on him. “He asked for my number.”

“Why did he—did they make up or something?”

Giving a grand _I have no fucking idea_ expression, Natasha thumbs at her phone for another few seconds, shoves it under her thigh, then excavates her beer and takes a sip. “Clint didn’t say.”

Certain he’s not going to get any more information about Rogers out of this conversation, Bucky turns back to the TV and sticks his hand back in the popcorn bowl, but his concentration is broken. He has no idea what anyone is doing anymore. “Did he get the dog?” he asks.

He waits while she picks up her phone and taps away; finally she tosses it at him. A photo of Rogers’ friend is open, a selfie with that same dog, its fur clean, better-fed than the last time Bucky saw it, its dark eyes alert. “Clint said he went straight to the pound after he got released. Swipe right—there’s one of him and Rogers and the dog.”

Bucky swipes. “Fuck, Jesus—that’s not—”

“Swipe _right_ , I said, since when are you hard of hearing?”

Bucky swipes away from the dick pic, past Clint and the dog, to something that is essentially the same picture, just a little zoomed out so that it includes Rogers, his blond hair nearly matching the dog’s. His eyes are huge and blue and cheerful and his nose is scattered with light freckles that Bucky’s never noticed before.

“Congratulations,” Natasha says. “You’re in love with a delinquent.”

-

Forty-five minutes into a desk shift, Bucky’s headache—which he’s been treating with a combination of too much coffee and too much aspirin—is abating a bit, enough to start on his paperwork. They’ve been on patrol four out of their last five shifts, so his stack of forms is almost as tall as a regular-sized coffee cup; this is why he keeps his NASA travel mug in his top desk drawer, because he can’t bear the idea of having more work than coffee. It’s not as if he’s using it to keep his coffee hot—it’s never in the thing for long enough. There are mornings, like this one, where his hand won’t come unstuck from the handle.

“Hey,” Natasha says, and Bucky grunts a question, not looking up, “you got Form C5571-12 over there? On the Underwood robbery?”

Bucky flips along the stapled corners of his pages and finds C5571-12/Underwood near the bottom. He tries to extract it one-handedly but when it starts disturbing his neat stack, he reluctantly puts down his coffee and uses both hands. It’s too early to talk, so he tosses it at her desk and puts up a prayer that it makes it.

No such luck. Grumbling, he pushes back his chair and gets up, taking his coffee with him as he bends over to pick up the sheaf of papers, which has fallen into the six-inch space between their desks. He straightens up, shaking out the papers so they all lie properly, and plops them down on Natasha’s desk. Then, slurping as much coffee as he can fit into his mouth, he turns back toward his own desk.

And jerks back, sloshing nearly-boiling coffee onto his upper lip and a little into his nose, choking on the mouthful he’s swallowing at the same time. As a result he sprays coffee all over his own face, his uniform, and the floor, and makes a complete fool of himself in front of Steve goddamn Rogers, who’s standing by his desk clutching a flat silver box with a wide purple ribbon on it.

He stands there, dripping, coughing, and wiping at his face for a moment. Rogers’ mouth is open a little, a concerned furrow between his eyebrows; behind Bucky, Natasha is completely silent. After a second, Rogers hastily puts down his box and pulls several tissues from the dispenser on Bucky’s desk, alternating hands so it goes faster, and hurries over. “Jesus Christ, are you okay?” he asks, patting at Bucky’s face with both wads. “Shit, how hot was that coffee? Your skin’s bright red—I think you burned yourself.”

Sure, that’s why he’s red. “I’m fine,” Bucky mumbles, taking the tissues from Rogers and mopping himself up. His voice is hoarse—he’s pretty sure there’s still coffee in his lungs—and he steadfastly ignores the silence from Nat, who’s going to give him a hell of a time for this later. “You didn’t get arrested again, did you?”

“What? Oh—no,” Rogers says, and it’s not until he steps back that Bucky realizes how close he’d been in the first place. “No, I came to—I’m here to—um, these are for you.” He picks up the silver box and thrusts it at Bucky.

Crumpling the tissues into one hand, Bucky takes the box. The words _ANNA’S CONFECTIONS_ are emblazoned across the top in the same purple as the ribbon. “Thanks,” Bucky says, because his mind has filled with a desperate buzzing and he doesn’t know how to turn it off. “Uh. Thanks.”

“I just.” Rogers sticks his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet a little. “I wanted to apologize. I’m—I’m going to try and stay out of trouble. Last time you arrested me you looked. Well. One fewer criminal on the streets, right?”

Bucky stares at him, at the wry smile on his face, the way he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back and then forward and then back again, making it stick up in about a thousand different directions. “You brought me chocolates,” Bucky says, “to apologize for making me do my job.”

Rogers blushes. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Hah. I guess. I hadn’t really thought of it that way.” He shifts his weight again and nods. “Well. Um. Yeah. I’m still sorry. I’ll—I’ll see you around.”

Not sure what to say, Bucky watches him go; the back of his neck is red when he turns away, and he walks all the way to the stairs with a sheepish little tilt of his shoulders. Finally, when he’s disappeared into the stairwell, Bucky turns to look at Natasha, pinching at the spot on the back of his neck that an acupressurist once told him would help reduce his headaches.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asks.

She tips back in her chair and picks up her water bottle. It’s disconcerting to Bucky that she doesn’t drink coffee. Just another sign of her superiority to all other humans. “You embarrassed yourself, that’s what.”

It’s no use glaring at her. She’s not affected by that. Bucky makes a three-point shot tossing out his tissues and heads for the bathroom, hoping he can get the coffee smell out of his collar.

-

By the end of the day Bucky’s headache has developed into a deep, throbbing migraine, and so when he gets home he drops the chocolates on his kitchen table and falls onto the couch, having zero energy even to make it all the way to bed. His phone blings once or twice from his pocket, but he doesn’t bother to look at it, instead pulling a cushion over his head and wondering if death would be more comfortable.

When he finally talks himself into sitting up, going to find more aspirin and maybe something small to eat, it’s dark. It can’t be too late—he can still see the last bits of pink at the edge of the horizon—but for once in his life he wishes he owned a watch, because the idea of looking at his phone for the time makes his teeth hurt.

He’s drinking cold soup in the dark of his kitchen, standing next to the fridge, when his phone rings again. And rings, and rings. It’s so loud he might barf.

Closing his eyes, he digs the thing out of his pocket and hopes that he’s swiping correctly to answer it. It stops ringing, at least. Holding it about a foot from his head, he says, hoping his mic picks up his voice, “hello?”

“Um, Bucky?” says the voice on the other end, “I mean, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Who is this?” Bucky asks, and sips at his soup.

“Um. It’s Steve.”

Bucky leans against the fridge and slides down it until he’s curled up on the floor, knees to his chest, arm propped on his knees holding his phone somewhere near his face. “Steve who?”

“Oh. Rogers. It’s Steve Rogers.”

What the fuck. Bucky swallows, eyes still closed, and tries to think of a single thing to say.

“I just—I called to see if you were okay. You haven’t answered my texts, and, um, Natasha said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Oh,” Bucky manages. Suddenly it occurs to him that he might be completely blowing his chance with Rogers by being so taciturn. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” Steve says. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky swallows and thinks about saying he’s fine, but the lie just won’t come to his lips. “I’m,” he says. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. That’s how you sound,” Steve agrees. His voice is a little tinny, a little squiggly, the phone far enough from Bucky’s ear to distort the sound. “Do—do you need anything? Can I bring you anything?”

Bucky’s stomach makes itself heard, growling so loud he wonders if Steve hears. “Dinner?” he suggests. The room-temperature tomato soup he’s drinking directly out of a can isn’t really satisfying.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.” There’s a scrabbling on the other end of the phone, like of the putting on of a jacket. “You want anything particular?”

“There’s,” Bucky starts, thinks for a second, “there’s this pho place near here? I like their house special.”

“House special pho. Got it.” A slamming door. The sound of a zip being pulled, keys jangling into a pocket. “Um, where do you live, again?”

-

Instead of going back to the couch, Bucky pulls his jacket off its hook for a pillow and curls up on the floor next to the door to wait for Steve to arrive. He’s not exactly sure when that’s going to be and really doesn’t think he’s going to want to get off the couch once he gets there.

He dozes for some time—though how long he’s not sure—and is woken by two soft knocks on the door. Slowly he sits up, reaching up with one hand to unlock the door and swing the handle; and he grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut as the light from the hall spills into his unit.

“Bucky,” says Steve’s voice, and there’s rustling, the door closing, knees hitting the floor next to him. He can smell the pho, a little spicy, and the tenseness behind his eyes eases the tiniest bit. “I, um, I brought the pho you wanted.”

Peeking his eyes open, Bucky squints at Steve through the dark for a moment. “Thanks,” he says, whispers almost. Steve gives him a small smile.

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says again. “This is my seductive look. Is it working?”

Steve laughs and ducks his head. “Definitely,” he says, and then he looks around. “You want to sit on the couch to eat? Then you can just—you know—curl up there until you feel better.”

Bucky agrees and lets Steve help him to his feet and over to the sofa. They sit in silence and darkness while they eat, Bucky’s migraine lessening a little as his nose runs from the spice. He’s still in pain when he’s finished, though, and so he puts his Styrofoam container on the coffee table and leans back into the cushions, wondering if it would be rude to fall asleep.

It’s nice, actually, having Steve there, making just a little bit of noise. In true silence Bucky finds his migraines make his ears ring, but with Steve breathing and moving near him that’s not happening. He doesn’t know how to ask and doesn’t want Steve to be uncomfortable.

He’s still trying to figure out how to say it when Steve clears his throat. “Do you want me to go?” he asks. “I can—if you want—”

“No,” Bucky finds himself saying, louder than he wants to, and winces a little because it hurts. “No, stay. Please. If you want.”

He manages to look at Steve, hoping it’s dark enough that he doesn’t see the blush on his cheeks. Steve’s looking right back, and is Bucky dreaming that he’s blushing too? Finally, Steve settles back into the couch too. “Of course. Of course I can.”

Sighing, Bucky shuffles lower in his seat and around until he’s lying against the armrest. He waves an arm around the room. “Help yourself to…books. Food. Um, anything.”

“Yeah,” he hears Steve say, and as he shuts his eyes, a blanket drops over his body.

-

It’s still dark when Bucky wakes—or, no: the curtains are drawn, but there’s an edge of sunlight. His head is blissfully painless, even when he sits up. He’s in bed, though he doesn’t remember getting here.

Rogers is probably gone by now, Bucky thinks; and he gives himself a long time to get out of bed. He’s pretty sure it’s his weekend, though if it isn’t he knows Natasha will check him in as sick.

Grabbing his favorite throw blanket off the end of his bed, Bucky wraps himself in it and heads for the kitchen. Coffee sounds good right now, and then some cereal and after that maybe some movies.

He’s yawning so big that he doesn’t notice the smell of coffee until he’s standing in the kitchen looking at Steve goddamn Rogers, a walking wet dream in a pair of Bucky’s sweats and a t-shirt that’s way, way too tight across the shoulders. “Uh, hi,” Bucky manages.

Rogers looks up and smiles. “Hey. Feeling better?” Bucky nods, and Rogers walks a cup of coffee over to him. “Hope you don’t mind I borrowed some sweats.”

“No, yeah, it’s—um, it’s fine.”

The coffee is good, strong, and hot, and Bucky sips at it for a second, watching as Rogers wanders about the kitchen making toast. “I slept on the couch after I moved you to your bed,” Rogers explains, and Bucky wishes for a second that he remembered that. Had Rogers carried him fireman style? Honeymoon style? Had he dragged him in there by his wrists? Probably not—Bucky’s shoulders feel fine, and he’d know if they weren’t okay; an old hockey injury would have flared up. “I figured—um, I decided I should stay the night. To make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Bucky says, leaning against the doorway. In the sunlight of the kitchen Steve’s all golden, his shoulders obscenely wide compared to his waist, his eyelashes almost white in the sun. “And. And thanks. For bringing me dinner last night.”

Steve grins at him again. “It was my pleasure. You really sounded like shit on the phone.” He wanders over to the table and picks up the chocolates, shakes the box a little. “You mind if I…?”

Bucky gestures him on. “You bought them, didn’t you?” He takes another long sip of coffee and watches as Steve slides the ribbon off the box.

Leaving the lid on the table, he pulls a piece of paper from the top and holds it out to Bucky. “I was…um, I was hoping you were going to open these last night.”

Cinching his blanket cape into one hand, Bucky takes the paper. It’s thick paper, high-quality, torn along two edges. It’s folded once; across the front is scrawled _Sgt Barnes_ in blue pen. There’s a smudge of dark grey, maybe charcoal, in one corner.

Inside it reads:

_Tony says he’s tired of paying my bail and I should nut up and ask you out._

_Dinner?  
Steve_

His name is underlined. Under that is his phone number.

When Bucky looks up, Steve’s blushing hard, but grinning with the corner of his mouth. He sticks his hands into his pockets, and the longer Bucky looks at him, the smaller his smile gets.

“I misread the situation, didn’t I,” he says, looking a little deflated. “I—sorry. I’ll go.”

“Rogers,” Bucky says, and Steve pauses on his way to the sink with his mug. “Have you been getting arrested _on purpose_ just to see me?”

“Ha ha ha?” Steve tries, but when Bucky doesn’t laugh he looks away. “Uh. Maybe. A little. Not the first time.”

Bucky stares at him. “You’re—really, really weird,” he says. “And you’re going to have to make it up to me. There’s a good breakfast place near here. Go get dressed.”

**Author's Note:**

> [plz love me and come give me inspiration for what to write next](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/).


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